A Gilded Cage
by Lyralamora
Summary: Loyalty, fealty beyond anything; that was his pathology, his life. So familiar, and yet, he mused, in the end what had it brought?  Blood turning to poison, his mind delirious with fever, Basch reminisce over times and dreams long lost.


**A/N:**Initially being an avid and devoted Balthier-fan, I've never dedicated much time to other male protagonists. But of late I have, for reasons not quite clear, developed a soft-spot for our dear Captain Basch. This story is the result of my newfound addiction.

**Disclaimer: **Final Fantasy XII is the property of Square Enix.

A Gilded Cage

_There are but a handful of men who can be said to be of true integrity. I have known only one such man, but he was one of such high moral standard, that I count myself lucky nevertheless. _

_His passing was just as mysterious as his life. A reader might wonder as to why I mention him then, when I know so little of the niceties. With a life and mind shrouded in mystery, I believe few know the truth of the man behind the armour. _

_Nevertheless, he was my friend, my most loyal councillor, and a great influence. His deeds; those who are indeed known, shall never be forgotten. His praises shall be sung, though few so much as know his name._

_~Memoirs of Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, 761 Old Valendian_

_I_

_Imperial City of Archades, 712 Old Valendian_

A sentence reverberated through the hazy shade that enveloped Basch's mind, spoken by a friend long ago; sage advice from the most notorious sky pirate in all of Ivalice:

"_You're a dead man. Do not forget it."_

Indeed. He had been dead these eight years. Now his body caught up at last.

There were few things as pathetic, or indeed repulsive, as an old and bitter man, reminiscing over times and dreams long lost. It was the sort of thing, he supposed, that followed hand in hand with mortality.

He had once spoken boldly of cages - a feeble quip to impress his young companion. How he knew them, how he understood. Now, lying in between his silken covers, almost drowning in the ocean of pillows, he had to concede he had been utterly foolish. But then, that was the young man's plight, just as it was that of an older man to recognize them. Recognize them and be ashamed.

Still, he was content to simply lie there, wallowing in shame and memories.

Cages; it was a strange thing. There were the tangible ones, with locks and bars. As the one his brother had shut him in for two years. And then there were the ever-watching eyes, controlling, condemning. Worst of all were the ghosts of memories, whispers in the night. Brushing lightly through his mind, wrecking havoc as it went.

His frayed mind drifted in and out of consciousness, mixing anecdotes with dreams. In his feeble condition he had a hard time distinguishing which was which. He was seemingly floating in this atmosphere of sickness and stuffed air. The crimson draperies coloured the room in a red glow, the sun creating flimsy patterns in the ceiling.

Through mountains of pillows he stared up, believing for one wonderful, insane moment that the mountains were genuine, the pattern blazing flames.

_Soft sheets and heavy light, the roof burning, flames stretching into the night. Wild dancers around his bed, singing their tribal songs; Landis, Landis. How long it had been... _

_II_

_Republic of Landis, 678 Old Valendian_

No lesson ever came cheaply. Everything had its cost. But what, Basch Von Ronsenburg speculated, was the lesson of this venture? He had no clue, to be sure. But the due was paid at any rate, though not by the culprit himself.

The far away fire blazed, flames stretching high as if their greatest ambition was to reach the stars above. It lent a light to the world around, flames purging the darkness, making it so that the hills beyond appeared to be ablaze as well.

All around this inferno moved little figures with great haste. Their intent scurrying back and forth made it look like some sort of foreign ritual; a feral dance around the flames, paying tribute to the forces of nature. Swayed by the notion, he suddenly visualized himself dancing with the mob, flames scorching his skin, warming yet painful all at the same time.

Perhaps it was a result of his old-fashioned upbringing that he should think every misdeed carried a lesson. Or perhaps it was the simple, yet invaluable powers of observation; a misdemeanour having never gone unpunished one way or another.

Everything looked perfect from far away. His surroundings of mud and smoke lent truth to the expression of the grass always being greener on the other side. Chest still heaving from the distance run, he looked around in the meadow, searching for his partner in crime.

There was only him, ankle-deep in the moist and muddy ground, face black with soot, his tongue tasting something suspiciously like ashes. Yet there were no enjoying the sight, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, when he was alone.

In the hamlet of Dali, people were still dancing around the flaming edifice, no doubt carrying buckets of water, running hither and thither like ants in a hive, trying to gain control over the flames. The distant explosion of glass as the roof caved in could be heard, even at the safe distance of the meadow.

Guilt and punishment was sure to come. But in this field, there were no regret. Far from everything, a secluded haven, safe from the world, flames looked like illuminating candles, screaming women like dancers in the nigh.

"Basch?"

A hissing whisper reverberated through the dark.

"Noah? Is that you?"

With the rustling of bushes and branches, the dead leaves giving in and falling to the ground, there appeared a figure from in between the trees, providing the voice with a body. Even in the darkness, Basch could sense the other boy's reserve. Hesitating amongst the branches, he looked towards the fire.

"Basch... What did you do?"

Excitement gave way to confusion and pain. As the adrenaline subsided, he became aware of his battered knees; blood-soaked and grimy, his teal shorts torn to tatter. He squinted through the dark, towards his brother, still standing hunched between the trees.

"What do you mean?"

His voice, still out of breath, was ringing with clarity. No whispers in this field. Not from a son of Von Ronsenburg.

He stepped out of the shade then, into the meadow of mud and ashes. The wind, light and feeble on this summer's night, brought with it ashes from the fire, scattering it like rain over the mountainside. His brother's face, so like his own even their own mother had trouble telling them apart, was as dirty and sweat as his own. Though it was not the face Basch directed his eyes on, but rather the quarry clutched in the other boy's hand.

"You got it? I thought there was no time," he said in a rush of excitement.

Noah stretched out his arm, seemingly offering their booty in quiet confirmation. In the firm hold of his hand, whose knuckles was bruised and battered, the skin frayed and blood-soaked, there rested the object of their mutual desire; a vase.

It was an ugly sort of porcelain effigy, a joke to the name of art, seemingly nothing more than a trinket. And yet, though it was with great hardship it had been acquired, it carried even greater value. Or so they had been told throughout their childhood, by their father whose only source of accomplishment was acquiring this breakable lump of porcelain.

After a few eager steps, he paced himself, stuffing his hands in his pocket to enhance his air of cool detachment. Noah stepped further into the meadow, eyes still fixed on the distant hamlet burning.

"We should get going," Basch offered, trying to break the flame's spell on his brother's mind. "They'll come look for us soon. Come on!"

But the other boy, inexplicably, inexcusably, shook his head.

"No."

"What? What do you mean no? You've got the vase, now let's get out of here."

"You were not supposed to burn the house," his brother offered as means of explanation. "We weren't supposed to hurt anyone."

"If someone got hurt, it's only what they deserve. That vase is our inheritance."

Tripping nervously, his gaze broke from the fire at last. He looked so forlorn, so scared. Basch could only dread the though that he might appear likewise.

"What about Mother?" he asked.

Basch had a good mind to curse his brother's failing spirit. Had they not properly planned this? Had they not for weeks now spoken of what must be done, and how to do it? Had they not together, as the brothers they were, cursed their mother's weakness in selling out their father? United in hatred, plans had been spawned. And now his brother, his only ally, was to back out.

"Come. Let's have no more of this. You said you would go. You promised!"

"We weren't supposed to burn down the house," he repeated, acting more infuriatingly annoying then ever before.

"I know. And I'm sorry for that. But what's done is done. If we leave now, we can reach the boarders in a couple of days. There we will sell the vase, and make our way to Dalmasca. Come, brother, this is what we planned."

"I know." He nodded, looking down at the object in his hand; the family heirloom stolen by the Imperial Guard, now to finance their new lives as Dalmascans.

"But now that we're here... Now that we are free..." he looked up at long last, his aversion to the plan more obvious than ever, "I find that I do not want to go."

"Noah!"

"No!" he yelled back, voice gaining strength, eating away at their bond like the building crumbling in the fire behind them. "I belong here. In my homeland. In my father's land. With Mother..."

The dog turns tail and flees... They stared at each other across the muddy lawn. Both in obvious reticence, coldly challenging one another. The vase suspended between them as the prize.

"We said we would go. To fight the Empire. To take back what is ours to claim. You said you'd come..."

"Suit yourself."

The brother, fickle and deceitful to the last, opened his wounded hand, letting their breakable inheritance fall to the ground, where it smashed at his feet.

"So long, brother."

_III_

_Imperial City of Archades, 712 Old Valendian_

He rarely revisited those memories, never before having counted himself as an 'old man'. But it was not the 42 years he had walked this earth, thrown hither and thither by the streams of life, that suddenly spurred this sentimental lingering in past times, but rather the increasing infection that turned his blood to poison, rendering his mind delirious.

His thoughts settled, as the sun descended behind the Sochen cliffs that lay as a wall against which Archades nestled. The flicker in his roof subsided, the flames dying down.

He came to wonder, trapped in his prison of silk and down, how events had unfolded after his timely escape. What damage had his home-village suffered? Had the flames eaten away, chewing up his homestead, leaving only ruins and ashes in its path? And lastly, what had come of his mother?

How curious it was. What number of years had passed, when he had not given the incident a second though? Pragmatic man that he was, he found it unwise to dwell to long in the past. His past, family and homeland had been packed neatly together, tucked away in his subconscious, and left there to gather dust.

That was the sort of thing this incessant thinking brought then? Unwanted memories, long since gone, just as unchangeable as his own condition. To reevaluate one's life, when it would soon be snatched away, that was simply cruel. Yet he could not keep his mind from wandering.

Darkness fell, like a protective blanked over Archadia and Basch's mind. He would have liked nothing better than to drift off to sleep, leaving himself in the loving grasp of his dreams. But pain and fever rode his body, keeping him from rest. And in ache and darkness, there were little to do but reminisce.

He thought of silvery hair in a fresh breeze, guns and military strategies, weapons long since outdated. Blond braids and yellow leather. Toil and effort and sweet smiles of gratitude. There were airships and fights and flights and everything from between dawn and dusk, blending together in his mind. But most of all there were grey eyes, narrow with worry, weary with drudgery. Hard as the steel of his blade, they were; unforgiving and bitter; the most beautiful thing in the world.

Thought drifting, his lids flickered up and down. He must have closed them longer than expected, because on opening them, he found the room alight. Though not with the cold light of morning, but rather a warmer glow as that of candles. And the eyes; the grey eyes, peering down at him, brimming over with sorrow.

_IV_

_Skycity of Bhujerba, 706 Old Valendian_

It began with a smile. A stolen moment in the gardens of the Marquis Ondore; the most glorious moment of his life. She hated him still, he knew that. But then it took more than a hasty confession to purge two years of growing resentment. Still, a Captain did not require his Princess' approval.

She was standing in the garden, quite alone, peering into the glowing pool of the Maquis' fish-pond. Surrounding them both was the neatly trimmed garden of the fauna only found on this strange floating land of Dorstonis. Blue rose bushes stretched over the water, reflected on the surface, making their beautiful shapes twofold. Just as the woman at their side.

Her sword lay beside her in the grass, discarded with such causality, as though it was not her most valuable weapon. She felt safe here, he supposed, trusting the Marquis with her life.

"Ashelia?"

She did not turn, but the stiffness suddenly seizing hold of her shoulders betrayed her attempt to ignore him. The wind, bringing with it the scents from the Naldoan Sea, rippling through the bushes and trees, played with her hair. It was shorter now, he noted. She had cut that little braid. Yet two years on the run had not diminished its shine; silvery, though somewhat bluer in this light.

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice was cold, sharp like a whip. He found he missed it, letting a suave smile tug at his lips before scolding his expression into something more neutral.

"I..." he began feebly before trailing of, realizing he did not know what to say. "I only wish to see how Your Majesty is doing."

The muscles in her back flexed visibly, the thin fabric of her too modest clothes revealing her every movement.

"I'm fine... I wish for everyone to stop inquire that," she snapped, as angry as she was untruthful. Vossler had indeed been correct; the Princess could not abide weakness, least of all in herself.

Her fatigue was made more evident than ever, as she turned towards him. Her weary face cut in sharp relief by the scant light, the blue reflection of the water playing across her features. But her eyes would not be made to flicker.

"My apologies Your Majesty. I meant no offence."

She visibly deflated at his words. Fatigue of past events coupled with the rollercoaster of emotion, left her more worn out than he had realized. Yet she would scorn him for his aide, so he did not dare offer it.

"I did not kill your father," he said instead, as means of explanation, though the words sounded quite absurd taken so out of context. They hung between them in the silence, seemingly growing the further it stretched on. Soon his statement, heavy and obtrusive, required her immediate reaction.

"If you say so," she nodded solemnly, hair falling forward to cover her face like a curtain.

"You will not be staying here, will you? You will run away." he said unprompted. "We were friends once. You can not lie to me, Your Majesty."

At the sight of her rising anger, he could feel nothing but pity for her, though he was wise enough not the say. She must truly have suffered for her to cringe so, like a wounded animal, at any personal comment that might befall her. No wonder she was tired, and almost, if the light did not deceive him, close to tears.

"If you were my friend, if you truly are still, why do you call me 'Your Majesty'? No," she shook her beautiful head in vigour, "save me the friendly banter. I require naught from you but your sword."

"I will call you anything you wish, Your Majesty. And as for my sword, you have it."

And if he was teasing her just a little at that moment, it was only because he had missed her so; that darling, lovely princess, lighting up the room, though she rarely looked at him twice. Always rendering him in a state of wild joy at the though that he was in the same room as her; how close they were, how he could reach out and touch if he only had the courage and lacked the manners of a proper knight. He could recall, though the clarity was less than perfect, his growing indifference to everything else. The ridicule of other peoples regard. For surely that did not matter, not when compared to those of Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca.

Now she was broken; full of derision and scorn.

He extended his hand towards her in friendly gesture, at which she recoiled; jumping back, reminding him ever more of the sight of a wounded animal. But once that jump had been taken, there were no were else to turn. With the lake at her back, and her knight before her, Ashe could no longer run.

He did feel pity at the panic in her eyes. But once again he would heed Vossler's council, and try to make her pace herself.

"Be easy, Ashe. I will not hurt you."

She kissed him then. Astonishingly, amazingly. Awesome in the word's truest sense.

With her silvery hair and pale skin filling his vision, her lips pressed firmly, perhaps even almost too hard against his, all he could think was of how she kissed him, how he was kissed. He could taste desperation on her lips; a plea for his forgiveness, for his understanding. But perhaps most of all, a request for his undying loyalty. She would not be abandoned again.

The kiss was awkward and swift; soon to be concluded. He extricated himself carefully, pushing the young woman back. For despite the allure of her lips, her eyes, her entire being, he could not. Surely, he must not!

But she must understand why, or else get wounded. He whispered to her then. _That_ he recalled with perfect clarity, the words tolling like bells through his mind. At the blue lake of the Marquis' estate, he had leaned towards his Princess and whispered to her.

"Everyone will pry your hands from the raft and watch you drown. Everyone except me," he spoke in gruff passion most ill befitting a knight.

His intensity may have scared her, but it was imperative that she should understand; that if all else should fail, she must trust him on this.

She smiled then.

That was the shining moment of his life. When all else would wither and die, memories fading and loosing their shine, be forgotten and washed away by the tides of time, he would never forget that moment. For, at least on his part, this was love. Surely, what was this thing, if not love?

_V_

_Imperial City of Archades, 712 Old Valendian _

"Your Majesty..."

"Oh please. None of that. We are old friends, are we not?" she said, swatting his courtesy away like a fly.

Her voice was blithe and quite unnatural, though her eyes bore her customary graveness. How he relished in that gaze, strict and penetrating.

It was not easy to regain focus in the face of it all; memories, reality, pain, all amalgamating, wearing him down.

"And how come I find myself in such royal company this morn?"

"Basch... It is some hour yet 'till dawn."

"Oh..."

Hours she'd said. Hours left in this perpetual dark. Her keen intuition saved him from explaining his look of sudden pain.

"Do not despair. I will wait them with you."

"I might be dead before the night is over," he muttered, amused by his eyes lack of focus, where his sight drifted from her face, to her breasts, to the silken covers shrouding his ample frame.

"Do not say such things," she admonished. She would not cry; not for him, not for anyone. A woman grown now, she did not show such sign of weakness. But her eyes were as dimmed; she was still scared of death.

"I grow weary if this pretension. I am dying, Ashe."

"Basch..."

But though he relished in her loving voice, it was wrong to call him by that name.

"No. You must not call me that," he hastened to correct her, the faux pas seeming somehow very important at the moment. "I am not he. I have assumed the role as Gabranth. Noah."

"But you are still yourself, are you not?"

If she had only known how that question had plagued him, surely she wouldn't have asked. But for all those night-time hours of contemplation, what was the end result? Where did Noah end and he begin. What was, when it really came down to it, the difference between the two?

He had been so certain once. The shattered vase and broken promise. And from that experience alone, he had constructed his independence and his opinion, all in all culminating in the simple difference that he was a free man, not a slave. He did as he wanted, not as he had to. In the end it was his sense of duty and responsibility that spurred him into action. Free of greed and tyranny.

But this was not the truth. For Basch was not free. Loyalty had always bound him as assuredly as it had bound his brother, albeit to a different master. Incarcerated in conventions cage; though the bars and locks differed, their predicament was the same. They were the same. He had never been able to live with that knowledge. Now he would die with it.

"He had a family, you know," he whispered at long last, not quite certain how long they'd remained quiet.

She looked at him, grey eyes deep pools of concern. "Really," she whispered softly, as though a mere sound would be enough to finish him off.

"A wife and a daughter. She... she kissed me. The wife, I mean, not the daughter. Thought I was her husband, come home at last. He never spoke of me, you see. They did not believe I was not Noah."

He did not go on after that, and she did not urge him to. Having drawn the drapes apart, she stared out of the window, eyes squinting towards the ascending moon.

_VI_

_Nalbina Fortress, 706 Old Valendian_

What travesty, what disrespectful contempt it was for Gabranth to have chosen this, the scene in which his ultimate betrayal had taken place, to be his home. While HRM King Raminas was rotting away in the ground, Noah had founded his home on the man's bones. That his brother had joined the late king in the grave did not condone his actions. It was as if everywhere he turned, there were Noah's ghost, taunting him, reminding him how he'd not been able to save the king he'd sworn to protect. His weakness was his brother, and now he was Noah. What paradox.

It would seem that, even now, he could not escape his brother's actions. Not his misdeeds, not even his chivalry.

It was standing on the doorstep, laundry basket propped against one hip, while she was struggling with the heavy oaken doors, that she first spotted him. The servant chirped in surprise and momentarily dropped the basket, clean clothes flying everywhere, scattering the dusty ground of the fortress like a ragged carpet. Throwing the door wide open, she bolted inside, screaming for her mistress.

Moments later she was back in the doorway, holding it up for the woman who came gliding out behind her.

He could feel himself shrink before her intent stare, already regretting he'd come in person, rather than sending a currier with the unfortunate news.

"Noah," she whispered in such passionate disbelief that he felt his heart break just a fraction for her, lamenting her loss that was so much greater than his own.

"No," he began, feebly shaking his head, the unoiled armour grinding with friction.

She did not hear him, or perhaps was too flustered to hear anything. Dropping the door in the face of the servant, she sprang down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She reached him within seconds, arms twining around his neck, mouth seeking out his.

Then there was the awkward predicament of extricating oneself from a kiss where the other party was not at all cooperative. But in the end she must have sensed his reticence, for she drew back, chiding him with her eyes.

"Apologies, Madam, allow me to clarify; I am not your husband."

He must explain more properly, but could not do so in the open street, or else someone might hear and spread the news.

Her eyes widened further, tears trailing down her dark cheeks.

"I... I do not understand..."

"No. I am truly sorry. If you would be so kind as to let me inn, I wild explain it all."

She did let him in, but refused to take his word for it at first. Yet, he at last persuaded her, and made her swear to secrecy on the matter. But though she said she believed him, he had his doubts. Or else, she would not have persuaded him to stay, chatting away like an old friend.

He would serve as a substitute for as long as she needed, then he would be evicted from her house. But that was his life now. He would play his part.

"Do you have a woman waiting for you?" she asked, smiling friendly. She no doubt though this a thoughtful question, having no idea what no doubt permanent damage the ice cube in Basch's stomach would produce.

"No," he said simply, not bothering to divulge in details that were both private and classified. "I am far too busy I'm afraid."

He took a sip of the strong Madhu tea that the servant had brought. They sought shelter from the heat in the house gardens, underneath a marquee of the most splendid Galtean colours.

"Noah always found time for his family, though he was so busy, being a Judge Magister and all."

"Yes. Quite remarkable," Basch agreed.

"He took care of his mother too, you know," she said solemnly, apparently forgetting that said mother was Basch' too. "She lived here, until her death a couple of years ago. About the same time as little Danna was born."

"Danna?"

"Our daughter," she explained, dropping copious amounts of sugar in her own cup of tea.

So she was dead. It was no more than he had assumed, and yet... To know she'd been alive for so long... And so close too.

"I suppose he was the better man," Basch murmured, "taking care of our mother. I regret to say I left her, though she was feeble and in need off care."

"Yes," she nodded again, braids and pearls adorning her head tinkling. "He was a good man. I don't care what anyone says now."

Such loyalty. If only he could find that...

"The history is written by the winners, you know. Had Vayne succeeded, or the old Emperor not died when he did, people might look at the Judges a bit differently."

She was no fool, this woman. Basch could only applaud his brother's taste. Yet he could not refrain from rebuking at her comment.

"Yet you must conceive some of what the Empire has done is not right?"

"Who are we to judge? It is all too easy to condemn someone after the storm has passed. But to judge a man by laws that did not exist during his crime... that is not right either. All I know is that Noah was a loving man, striving to fend for his mother and us. Had he lived in another time, had he immigrated to another land, then you might think better of him..."

She put her cup down with a sigh, motioning for the waiting servant to bring her a new one. Leaning back in her mound of pillows, she stared up at the marquee above them.

"In the end, it was his loyalty that brought him down. His loyalty to the Emperor, to me, Danna, his mother... Had he been a lesser man, you might have thought better of him."

_VII_

_Imperial City of Archades, 712 Old Valendian_

"Basch...? Can you hear me?"

A gentle nudge at his shoulder and his eyes shot open, the pupils shrinking before the light.

"Are you awake?"

"Yes," he croaked, voice feeble from lack of use.

A slight shift on the mattress, a little dip at its edge, told him she'd sat down. Leaning forward, her head came into vision, her hair reaching out to him, almost brushing his face. Though a woman grown now, she was still young, still beautiful.

"Larsa say you will not reveal what happened," she whispered.

He did not answer this, as it was not a question but merely a statement of his actions. He did not have the energy for too much banter.

"'Tis not important."

"I must presume to dispute with you. I can not watch without knowing there is no cure. Please Basch, tell me."

"Then that, m'lady, will be your burden to shoulder."

No banter did he say? Then what was this?

"The reason for my predicament is not important. Please believe me on this. 'Tis only the end result that matters."

It was not a fickle game that restrained him from telling her, but rather his own ignorance. Yet he did not want her to think him stupid. It was better to elude the question entirely. All he knew was that the creature bound to him; his Esper; connected with body and soul, had turned on him. Not by force of violence, but rather that of the mind, forcing him into this darkness that he could not escape.

Ashe did not have time to nag him further. Soon the door was nudged open, a servant sticking his head indoors.

"Your Majesty. The Emperor requires an audience. At once."

The world did not wait for the dying to pass. As was how it should be.

"It's quite alright. I will wait here for your return."

She smiled, giving him a swift kiss. His lips were too numb to feel it.

"My return will be hasty. You will not be alone," she assured him, before she scuttled of the bed and out the door.

Loyalty, fealty beyond anything; that was his pathology, his life. So familiar, and yet, he mused, in the end what had it brought? They were dead. His blood; his brother, his closest of comrades; Noah and Vossler. Both rotting in the grave.

What had been left to live, was now lost to him. His woman, his only true love, slipping from between his fingers. But marriage, love, happiness, between a Queen and her knight; those were the properties of fanciful tales. He had stayed away, ignored her pleas, her reasons and her tears, until she married at last. To the Emperor, and rightly so. Forging allies, spawning airs. Thus she was lost to him forever. Even though she was standing right before him.

Now all that was left was solitude. His cage. How was it any better than a wooden coffin? Or indeed to fulminate in an explosion of gasoline, Mist and metal, his remains scattered in the sky?

That was his lesson, and he had learned it well; he would never escape this gilded cage. For all his loyalty, all his sacrifice, he was dying alone.

This perpetual reminiscing made his shackles feel lighter. With a great shudder, body caught in the throws of death, the sun was ascending, its penetrating rays dissolving his cage in a rush of golden light.


End file.
